by David Bell
He heard the deep sweet sound of a bronze gong announcing the setting of the sun. Ashator was also the patroness of ships’ masters. Did Potyr out there trust her to give him safe entry into port? He turned his mule’s head back towards the city. He would ride to the shipyard and stop at a tavern where he knew the shipwrights drank. It was cooler there, near the water, than in his lodging when the hot night winds came.
To take the mare and a packhorse and ride up and up as high as the snow and lie out under the stars wrapped in a cloak and see the sunrise through the clean biting mountain air, as we used to do.
Among the many gifts which eventually arrived at the Palace in Keftiu to seal the agreement was a small ring, big enough only for a lady’s finger, of heavy, dark metal. It was not as hard as bronze but harder than gold. It was rather dull, not the kind of thing a lady of the court would choose to wear, although, when polished with fine sand, it did shine quite brightly. It was kept in a camphorwood jewel box, as a curiosity.
“I see they are using this in Keftiu now,” said the Minister, unfolding the scroll of wadij signed by Sekara. “The scribes say they can barely read the script now and in time it will fade away completely.”
“Might be no bad thing,” sniffed his deputy. “If the agreement needs one day to be, er, modified, there will be no embarrassing record of its being arranged in the first place.”
“You forget that our letters are written on tablets. They last much longer. Listen, what fool gave permission for that iron ring to be one of the gifts?”
BREATH OF THE GODDESS
The days grew shorter and the weather grew worse. Strong winds swept over Kallista, on fine days raising such clouds of dust that Dareka rubbed his sore red eyes and swore the island was being blown away to Keftiu. Colder winds brought rain day after day, cloaking the Mountain in thick cloud, turning parched valleys and ravines into torrents and sending floods of rubbish-laden water swirling through the streets of the town. Squalls stitched broad ribbons of foam across the dark grey sea and whipped up the waters of the Lagoon into such a fury that even the hardiest and hungriest fisherman thought better than launch his boat. Roofs began to leak and some to pour, soaking sleepers in their cots and dousing kitchen fires. Dareka offered a sheepish prayer of thanks to the Lady Mother in case it was she who had convinced him to spend the money and have his roof covered with the new tiles that Merida had offered him, at a price. The warehouse, unlike some, was weatherproof; Merida allowed no possibility that his stocks of grain might become damp and spoil. There was little work to do there, beyond checking and cleaning and going through accounts because with no movement of shipping there were no cargoes to land or load. In fact all but the small fishing craft had been hauled up on the beaches well above the strandline and covered with branches and thick layers of reeds to keep out at least some of the rain. All activity slowed down and the serious business of getting through the winter took hold of every mind. It was never too easy – there were few fat people at the end of winter – and this year it would be harder than most. The fierce summer sun had so scorched the fields that the barley, bean and lentil harvests were half what they normally were and the animals were thin from having poor forage. There would be wine, not so much, but at least it would be strong and sweet. As for the beer, it was a question of how much of the precious barley could be spared for brewing when there were hungry young mouths to feed.
Koreta had become concerned about the prospects for the winter after listening to deputations of village headmen reporting meagre stores of food and the early slaughter of goats, pigs and sheep for salting, because of inadequate stocks of hay and straw for winter feed. Even the quantities of salt fish were low. Catches had been poor. Perhaps the shoals were smaller or had moved away. It had been known to happen before, but this time was it was serious because the other foods were in such short supply. The Governor sent his steward, Apigoron, to make yet another check on the quantities of grain and oil held in the great storage jars in the cellars of the Residence, and also to strengthen the locks on the doors. He was in no doubt that rations of this food would have to be distributed to the people before the year was out. Messages under his seal were sent out to landowners and merchants, calling them to a meeting with the Governor to consider what help might be forthcoming from their stocks. Kallista would have to get through this difficulty as best it could using its own resources, the ultimate necessity being to live on less until the spring, because Keftiu had nothing to spare, even if relief ships had been able to sail, which they could not.
The days were mostly dull for Sharesh. Little work in the warehouse for him meant more time available for working at the script, improving his hand, and practising his numbers. He spent rainy afternoons with the scribe, his mind sometimes wandering until a sharp rap on the knuckles from a stylus reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing. What he was not supposed to be doing was what enticed his mind away from the tablets: the sudden swelling of desire demanding immediate relief, the pictures that flashed into his mind in all their vivid detail, a bewildering blend of voluptuous red-nippled painted goddesses; Leilia as he, unseen, had watched the water stream down her naked back as she washed her hair; and Pasipha, coming towards him, almond-shaped eyes pleading, arms outstretched, the sheer silk shift slipping from her shoulders. Slowly the images faded, leaving him reluctant to see them go, but feeling breathless, aroused, ashamed. They came back at night, in his dreams, so erotic and overwhelming that he was sometimes shocked awake, his heart beating so fast and loud that he felt his mother must surely hear the sound. It was torment but a torment to which he always guiltily surrendered after only the briefest resistance. One night, suddenly, the picture was of Kallia, in her dance dress, looking at him over her shoulder with a secret little smile on her face as she drifted slowly away from him He tried to call her back but, though he shouted the words, no sound came from his lips. She turned and her face was the face of Pasipha, her dress now the white gown she had worn in the sacred place, loose and open at the breast. The game, Sharesh, you must join in the game.
He had not seen Kallia since those happy swimming days at White Bay in the summer. There was no swimming there now, not even on a fine day; the sea was too cold. But there was the Lagoon. The fisherman’s son from Balloso had told him a strange thing. If you paddled along the shoreline from Balloso, away from the strait that led into the Lagoon, you came across a sort of little cove, an inlet hemmed in by banks of white stone with black rock in between that had been scraped away by the sea to make the cove. You could see the black rock like a wall running up the side of the cliff; there were lots more like it in the cliffs all round the Lagoon, but this one had a cave in it quite high up the cliff face, but not too high you couldn’t get to it. Seabirds nested there and you could find their eggs if you knew when to look. They tasted good. Well, this cove was a good place to find the red fish, so he went there sometimes when his father let him. One day, not long ago when he wentt, he saw something he had never seen there before, though he had seen it in the water near Korus: bubbles streaming up from the sea bottom, and the water was warm. It didn’t smell bad like the place off Korus and it was clear, not cloudy and brown.
Why not go and take a look, thought Sharesh? If it was as good as it sounded, perhaps he could ask Kallia and Mara and Teptria to go swimming there. They could bring Kavrar to carry the things and he could ask some other boys. All that was needed was a fine sunny day. The thought of seeing Kallia and the other girls swimming again brought on his hot feelings and he shook his head hard to sweep them away.
“So you think I have made a mistake?” said the scribe testily. “Oh no, master scribe, I was thinking of something else.”
“This is the script form for a young woman, and, watch closely now, as I form the group for three young women, carrying baskets.”
Sharesh gulped hard and stared fixedly at the marks. Could this scribe read his thoughts? “Now, let me see you make the same forms.”
&
nbsp; His hand was shaking too much and his marks were uneven. The scribe scolded him.
He tried to think of a way of sending a message about the new swimming place. He couldn’t just walk up to her father’s house and ask. Namun would have known how to do it. Namun always came up with a way of getting what he wanted without seeming to try. He missed Namun, and the others. He tried to picture what was going on at the shipyard. The winter weather would not bring a stop to the work if they had been able to get in enough materials before the ships were laid up. Memories flickered through his mind. Grilling fish they had caught over a fire on the beach; Namun pulling faces at Typhis behind his back; the master shipwright explaining why sometimes a square dowel was used to fit planks together tightly and why sometimes a round dowel was better; lying on the warm sand and looking up at the stars, the Hunter, the Charioteer and making up names for other stars. What was it Namun had said about the Charioteer? The yellow star was his eye, yes, that was it. And on the night he sailed for Telchina, what had he said about Kallia and why she left Keftiu: only Kallia can tell you, if she wants to. He would make her tell him, but how was he to find her?
Without knowing it, Merida solved his dilemna.
“You’re to go up to the mansion,” said Dareka. “Merida has a job for you and take your stylus. But before you go, your mother wants to see you.”
There had been a break in the bad weather and the day was sunny and mild. Akusha was sitting on the terrace from which she could see the road that led up towards the Temple on the Hill as Sharesh strode towards her. She felt a little catch in her throat. He walks like a man, she thought. He was taller than her now and his shoulders were broadening out. He bent to kiss her on the cheek and she took his hand. It was hard and strong. She remembered when it was a soft pudgy ball and he used to suck his thumb.
“Sharesh, my dear, I want you to do something for me. In the kitchen you will find two baskets that Seta has prepared. Take them to Amaia’s house. One is for her and the other has things in it that she will pass on to other people. No one but Amaia is to know they are from this house, you understand?
“Yes, mother.”
“It is nearly midwinter and many poor people are going short of food. It is the Lady Mother’s will that those who have a little more, should give some of it to those in greater need.”
“I have heard that the Lady Mother’s anger has been roused by things the people have done that she does not like and they are being punished for it. Will she not turn her anger on us if we go against her will and help those she is punishing?”
“Do not be misled by the foolish words of that officious little man who styles himself the Town Guardian. The Lady Mother speaks through the voice of the High Priestess and not that of some presumptuous lackey. These hard times will not last and we shall all enjoy her bounty in the midwinter festival, when the sun stands still at her command. Then the new year will be born and in time we shall know its plenty, thanks to her.”
“When I took Tika on the hills to chase hares yesterday I heard the gongs sounding from the Temple and chanting and singing going on for a long time. We men,” here he paused, blushing. “We are not allowed to see the rites or join in the prayers but I want to know, are they to ask the Lady Mother for help, for mercy?”
“My son, these are mysteries I may not speak of.” She stopped speaking and gripped his hand fiercely as if it were the only thing that could save her from falling into an abyss. She looked up at him with fathomless pain and sorrow in her eyes.
“Mother, is that why you left the service of the Lady Mother in Keftiu?” She kept hold of his hand but did not reply.
“Why do some leave the service of the Lady Mother in Keftiu, Mother? The Lady Pasipha told me she did so, and Kallia, who was one of the chosen children and was in the dancing, she has left and is back here on Kallista. Why do they leave, Mother?”
She sighed deeply and looked at him sadly. “The deeper mysteries are not always bearable, my son, because they demand the whole being and allow no holding back. I know the reason why Pasipha forsook the service of the Lady Mother but it is not for me to tell. As for the girl, Kallia, did you say? I do not know her, though it seems you do?” As she made this last remark her smile returned and she gave Sharesh a rather playful look. “Now, no more of this; go quickly and do as I ask. I know that you are awaited at the mansion.”
She was there! He could see her walking slowly at the side of Lady Tuwea along a curved path lined with rosemary bushes leading towards the terrace that looked over the Lagoon. Tuwea seemed to be doing all the talking while Kallia looked down at the path and sometimes shook her head. He knew his manners. He should approach the Lady Tuwea, make the required gestures and announce himself, say that he had been summoned to her house and…
“Hey, Sharesh, up here!”
He looked up. Merida was leaning out of a window on the first floor, beckoning to him. He half turned towards the terrace, thinking he should at least say something to the lady of the house.
“Come on. I haven’t got all day!”
Well, they must have seen he was here by now, he thought. He ran through the wide main entrance with its painted cedar framing and up the stone stairway to the floor above. A young manservant was coming down the steps fastening a leather belt around the waist of his kilt. He glanced sideways at Sharesh, stuck his nose in the air and said nothing. Merida appeared at the top of the staircase shrugging himself into a voluminous white smock. Sharesh looked first up and then back down the staircase.
“Don’t bother about him,” said Merida. “My wife wants him now. She always has something for him to do at this time of day and it can never wait. She’s out there on the terrace with some girl she brought back from Keftiu. Some talk of dancing or trouble at the Palace, I don’t know what. Come to think of it, you went out on the same ship as that girl and back with her as well. You must know her.”
“Yes, I, she,” stammered Sharesh, thinking fast. “I do know her and, and I have a message for her, so I must go and tell her, please.”
“Message, who from? Oh, never mind, go on then and be quick. You’ve got work to do.” Sharesh ran back down the stairs two at a time and out to the terrace. He saw the young manservant following Lady Tuwea towards the garden at the back of the house but there was no sign of Kallia. Despair flooded over him. She must have left for home. Perhaps a donkey cart had been sent for her. He rushed to the gateway and shouted for joy. She was there, sitting at the front of the cart beside its driver, Kavrar. He ran up to them and tried to catch his breath and speak at the same time. She stopped him.
“Not now; I will be here again tomorrow. Lady Tuwea is busy now but wants to talk to me again.” She gave him a rather anxious smile. “Come tomorrow.” Kavrar flicked the tip of his whip at the donkey’s flank and the cart rolled away towards the town. Sharesh followed it with his eyes until it was out of sight, then turned back towards the house.
“Would you believe,” said Merida, “the scribe said to me he is forbidden to read or write today because this is the day all scribes must spend praying to Sekhatia, Lady Mother of scipt and learning.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and put his mouth close to Sharesh’s ear. “I don’t believe a word of it, myself, but you have to be careful, just in case, you know.” He made a little gesture of contrition then beamed at Sharesh. “But here you are. You can do his job for him and I’ll get something back for what it’s cost me having you taught the script. There’s a tablet here from the Governor that I want read to me. After that you can write what I say in reply and take the tablet to the Residence. Got your stylus? Right; I have all the other things you need.”
It was late. Merida could not decide how to phrase his reply so that he might appear to be sympathetic without openly agreeing to do something that would leave him out of pocket. As he smoothed out yet another set of marks on the tablet and waited for another change of wording, Sharesh was thinking that the Governor was no fool and would soon see through all
this vagueness. The next message would demand a simple yes or no answer, with a no likely to incur painful consequences. When it was done at last and Sharesh thought he would be sent off to deliver the tablet to the Residence, Merida launched into a long list of questions about his stay on Keftiu, most of them about the ship. He said he knew Potyr and Kanesh were looking for the right men to form the crew when she set sail for the Endless Ocean and the Tin Islands. He paused and looked at Sharesh for a long time and said something, words that kept ringing in Sharesh’s ears as he ran through the narrow streets, dodging round people and ignoring their shouts as he went.
“Don’t say anything to the others yet, but I want you to be on that ship when she sails.”
He had been right. The Governor’s tablet in the wallet he was carrying had very few marks on it and when the words were read out to Merida his face took on a troubled, hurt look.
“Great Diwonis,” he muttered, “can’t have that happen. Just put yes and then mark down these numbers and things. You know how to put in all the polite words; I leave that part to you. Here’s my seal to press it.”
Tuwea swept into the room followed closely by the manservant carrying her basket. His long hair was uncharacteristically tousled and there was a dark purple bruise on the side of his throat.
Tuwea looked suspiciously at Sharesh as if wondering who he was and why he was here two days running, shut away with her husband. Recognition eventually showed on her face.
“I know you; you are?”
“Sharesh, my Lady, son of…”